


Watergate

by amaradangeli



Series: Sam and Jack Weekly Oneshot Challenge Submissions [6]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaradangeli/pseuds/amaradangeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Jack share a slight fixation on a particular zipper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watergate

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is probably one of the more implausible and morally ambiguous situations I've thrust upon our intrepid duo. Honestly, though, I just sort of *had* to.

It’s funny how an outfit can make you recall a memory from long ago.  Funnier, she thinks, how something you love, that defines the strength of you, can remind you of a weaker place and time made up of second thoughts and bad decisions.

In front of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, she slides up the zipper on the skirt of her dress blues. That action always makes her think of peeling that zipper back down her hip.  That movement leaves her trapped in a weak, younger moment; _she pushed her skirt to the floor, discarded her hose, wrapped her thigh high up around Jonas’ hip and let him take her against the wall_. They weren’t technically together yet and it had been a really bad day.

She’d told the story to Daniel once over too many drinks and too little dinner.  He’d promptly passed it along to the Colonel two nights later over _more_ beer, embellishing the parts about the bad day and her slight fixation on the feel of the uniform material between her fingertips and hip as she slid the zipper down.  Now, each time she she wears the uniform, O’Neill’s gaze falls to her hip at least once like he might have a fixation on that zipper, too.

She misses Bad Day Sex.  She misses the way the anger makes her go too fast, makes her forget to wait until she’s ready, makes her think she likes that burn, that friction of skin against skin, a too-big tab into a not-quite-ready slot, something that is everything except the bad day.  She misses taking her solace from a lover’s good orgasm or giving comfort of her own in the same way.  And sometimes the Colonel looks at the zipper on her hip and she misses those things even more.

 _That’s why_ , she reminds herself, _people you aren’t sleeping with aren’t meant to know certain things about you. For instance, people you’re not sleeping with shouldn’t know that place between your shoulder blades that make you shiver, the way to say your name that makes you pause, how sensitive the skin is over that bone in your wrist, or the way pulling your zipper down over your hip makes your thighs burn in anticipation of riding your bad day away._

But the Colonel knows about zipper and those other things too, because Daniel’s got a big damn mouth and she’s shit at hiding her baser reactions from a man she wants to sleep with – even if she knows she can’t sleep with him.

Either way, these days, she’s got a better relationship with Bad Day Ice Cream and Bad Day Drink than she does with Bad Day Sex. They are piss poor substitutes. And, as she pulls that zipper up over her hip, she recognizes that this is, potentially, a very bad day. The program’s going to sink or swim based on the recommendations of yet another group of misinformed uniforms and suits stuck in the deep rings of the Pentagon or Capitol Building. Her livelihood, the livelihoods of her friends, the ability to turn the Stargate on and watch it spin…well, it all depends on whether or not yet another group of people think the SGC is worthy.  For a group of people who’ve saved the planet so many times, they sure do spend an inordinate amount of time defending themselves.

She smoothes her hands down her abdomen. She’s picture perfect. Which is good because so are the rest of them: Daniel and Teal’c in sharp grey suits and the Colonel, dashing lines and sharp edges, mirrored sunglasses – not that she needs to see his eyes to know what he’s thinking. 

It’s a short ride from the hotel to the Capitol Building, but she’s thankful for the few moments to collect herself. The Colonel points Daniel and Teal’c to a second town car and holds open the door of the first one for her and waits, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses, as she slides her hand over her backside to keep her skirt from creasing when she sits down.

On the way there he doesn’t mention the proceedings. He says he’s buying the first round if things go their way.  She doesn’t tell him, but he’s buying them all plus breakfast if things don’t. But the way he cocks his head when she accepts his version makes her think her version is understood.

In the end, the Colonel owes them the first round. Daniel yanks his tie loose in the hotel elevator, impatient and humming with pent up energy, and Sam, feeling reckless with relief, calls them all by their first names, even Teal’c who is basically classified. Daniel and Teal’c get off the elevator four floors before Jack and Sam and she watches the way Jack’s eyes fall to her hip where she’s playing with tab on her zipper.

It’s hell because they both know what she’s thinking. And, because she’s thinking it, they both know what _he’s_ thinking. But there’s only one way she can have what she wants and considering the way the hearing just went, apparently that’s not in the cards.  She shifts from one foot to the other, looks at the front of his pants and suddenly wishes she hadn’t because there’s absolutely no mistaking the direction of his thoughts.

“I’m going to need a few minutes,” he says unashamedly when they stop at the door to her room.  She knows he’s not talking about the few he already needed to exchange his uniform for something looser.

“I think I am, too,” she mentions casually.

That’s the only way she can explain how she ends up against the textured wallpaper just inside her hotel room door with one of his hands high up on her rib cage just under her breast, his mouth on her neck and his fingers slowly pulling down the zipper on her skirt.

It’s wrong in every single way but she figures, as long as they don’t kiss, as long as he doesn’t look her in the eye, it’s not personal.  If it’s not personal, it’s not breaking the frat regs.  If it’s not personal, they’re just two people blowing off a little steam. Her silken hose slide right over the polyester of his trousers where the inside of her knee is stroking his hip.  The feeling makes her mouth run dry.  Or maybe it was the feeling of his hand sliding up the outside of her thigh and pushing her skirt up to give her the room to make that little maneuver.   

Then she's pressing the damp part of her silken panties against the fly of his pants and all of a sudden it’s personal the way he grunts against her neck and pushes back into her. When a breathy moan that’s mostly consonants and a desperate, needy sound pushes out of her and past his ear, he crowds her closer against the wall.  He’s vibrating against her and it feels so good and so bad at the same time that she wonders what’s wrong with her as she feels that slight bloom of pleasure spiraling out from her clit – that perfect moment of euphoria before the pleasure bounces between pain and elation.  She thinks she tells him she’s coming and the bastard pulls back and looks her in the eyes.

Between them she feels his hands and she’s already coming back around to herself when she realizes he had to do something or he was going to come all over both their uniforms.  It really is wrong, she realizes, when she’s standing there with damp underwear and his come soaking into the pantyhose on the inside of her thigh.

It’s wrong.  But it’s better than the drink he would have bought her or the ice cream she might have ordered and the however many more years they’re going to have to drag this thing between them.

He manages to look cool, sweet and not at all sheepish as he drags his palm across the smear of wetness on her leg before he eases her foot to the floor.  With his clean hand he tucks himself back into his pants while he goes into her bathroom and washes up like they do this sort of thing all the time. Sam thinks she’d remember if they did.   Despite that, she’s feeling pretty collected considering the newness and the wrongness of what they just did.

He comes back out and hands her a cool washcloth. She smiles at him, tucks it around the back of her neck and leans her head back against the wall. He straightens her skirt and zips it back up.

“Never mind, about that minute,” he says.

“I’m still going to need one,” she says a little breathlessly.

When he smiles at her it’s real, genuine, and not at all guilty.  “I’ll call the guys, tell them to hold up for a bit.  How long do you want?”

“About three hours,” she says and she hears the slick smile in her voice.

“Some things are easier to get away with than others,” he says with just a hint of regret.

“Twenty minutes?” she asks.

He winks.  “Meet you downstairs.”

When she’s alone she slides the zipper back down over her hip and this time she remembers Jack’s hands instead of Jonas’. And _that’s_ not wrong.


End file.
